Earlier on, while Henry was hovering half in and half out of consciousness, she had called Mitcheson’s mobile number. His response had been instant, his voice relaxed and warmly familiar.
‘I’m nearly finished here,’ he’d assured her, still in sunny Florida. ‘Three days max. Then I’m heading home.’ By home, she reminded herself, he meant San Francisco.
‘That’s good.’ She had found herself suddenly tongue-tied, aware of the distance along the line and asking herself if it had been a bad idea calling.
‘How about you?’ he asked. ‘Anything interesting happening?’
She had looked down at Henry, his breathing hovering on the edge of fading altogether, and remembered her own bruises, and wondered if the crash she’d heard earlier had been anything to do with Frank Palmer. ‘No,’ she’d lied easily. ‘Not much.’
‘In that case,’ he’d suggested, ‘how about I stay down here and we do some catching up?’
It was no contest. She’d heard Florida could be nice at this time of year. But she’d given it several seconds before replying. Always better, her mother used to say, to keep them waiting. She told him she’d call him with her flight details.
‘I hope,’ she said lightly, as Palmer came to a stop beside her and took a last drag of his cigarette, ‘that you haven’t been smoking near petrol.’ She reached up and gently brushed a fragment of burned leaf from his cheek. It was the only thing she would say about what had happened, and hoped the attempt at dark humour would help with whatever he might be feeling right now.
‘You know me,’ he said easily, and flicked the cigarette away into a small, half-dried puddle, where it sizzled and died. ‘I’m safety mad. Known for it, in fact.’